Fool
by FlatOutCrazy
Summary: Branson and Sybil have a conversation about kissing on the way home from a party, and Branson concludes Richard Smith is a fool.  One-shot set sometime in season one, post-count but pre-garden party.


"Branson?"

Her voice made him jump, because she had been sitting back there in melancholy silence for the bulk of the ride. She'd been invited to a party, _truly_ invited for the first time—the invitation was addressed to her, briefly mentioned Edith at the end, and glaringly omitted Mary. Mary had simply shrugged, tossed a "Have fun" over her shoulder, and left the room; really, what was there to say? Edith had feigned illness; she liked parties, but not enough to intrude where she obviously wasn't wanted.

Sybil had fretted about it. She felt guilty going and having fun when her sisters had been left out. And she didn't really love parties that much. But it _was_ rather exciting, even being invited. Her mother had encouraged her to go. So she'd gotten in the car with Branson, looking so beautiful it made his chest hurt and he had to consciously tell himself to stop staring before Carson or anyone else caught him, and they'd spent the ride there how they spent every ride when it was just the two of them—chatting idly, mostly about politics but also about whatever crossed their minds; him making her think of things from his perspective; her making him laugh out loud by sheepishly admitting she wished she could wear her harem pants to the party.

Her friend's house was just far enough away to make returning to Downton and then going back to pick her up silly, so he was to wait. When they reached the party and he helped her down from the car, she'd mentioned, "I do hope you've brought a book—I don't know how long these things last."

He couldn't help but smile at her concern. He knew it wasn't anything different than she'd show for Anna or Gwen or any of the other help, but he liked that she was thoughtful enough to consider that he'd get bored sitting around waiting.

But he'd been called to bring the car around much earlier than he'd expected—indeed, earlier than anyone else—and she'd been silent the whole time. She'd looked so downcast when he'd helped her into the car that he'd broken his rule that he wouldn't start any more informal conversations (yet again—he wasn't sure he'd actually ever kept the rule) with her and asked, "Is everything alright, m'lady?"

"I'm fine." She'd answered without meeting his eyes. "I think perhaps I'm coming down with whatever Edith has." He kindly didn't bring up the fact that they'd discussed on the way there that Edith was faking.

She hadn't said a word since, so her voice suddenly coming out of the darkness gave him a start.

"Branson, have you kissed many girls?"

The question was so unexpected he nearly choked. Why on _Earth_ was she asking him that? And how was he supposed to answer? The number was five, which seemed woefully small in a pub with his brothers and the other boys but he knew would sound outrageously high to innocent Sybil.

"I've had my fair share." He said finally, ignoring the urge to turn and look at her face to gauge her reaction.

"Yes, I thought so." Her voice was thoughtful. Well, what did _that_ mean? "And what was the first one like?"

"Uh…" He gulped a little. He'd been thirteen and had kissed Eliza O'Connor behind the big tree in the schoolyard. She'd punched him for his troubles and he' been afraid of her ever since.

"It's just that I've always thought a first kiss was supposed to be—well, supposed to be quite magical, really." She sighed. "I suppose that's just silly idealism." She sounded dejected, even cynical, and it made his heart ache.

"Did something happen at the party?" He asked hesitantly. He couldn't decide if he actually wanted to know.

"No. That's just the problem." She answered bitterly. There was a beat of silence. "You see, Richard Smith kissed me while we were in London."

Branson could've sworn he was going to die right there. Surely his heart had stopped beating. Who was Richard Smith? And what a ridiculous name. Jealously was seeping into him from every pore and he was glad she couldn't see his face, because the disgusted grimace on his face was uncontrollable.

"We've written a few letters since. But then tonight he wouldn't even look at me."

He had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out _how could he _not_ look at you_? Looking at her was all Branson wanted to do—to look at her for as long as he liked and not worry about anyone catching him, to stand back and take in the sight of her.

Well, looking wasn't _all_ he wanted to do…

"So then I asked him to take a walk with me, and I know he didn't want to but I made sure to ask in front of some other girls so he couldn't say no—" Branson couldn't help but chuckle at that—"and I asked why he was acting like that, and he said that I…" her voice halted. "He said that I was a silly, naïve little girl if I thought a few kisses behind the kitchens were a marriage proposal and I should leave him be."

Branson finally couldn't take it anymore and let himself turn to look at her. She looked so sad and confused, eyes down, mouth drawn down, hands clenched in her lap, that he was torn between stopping the car right there to kiss her and turning around to find that ridiculous man and throttle him.

"I didn't think it was a marriage proposal." She continued quietly. "I just thought…well, I thought it might have been a little more than nothing."

He thought his heart might burst. Oh, to say what he really felt! He longed to stop the car, to take her hands into his, to tell her how perfect and wonderful she was and kiss the sad creases from her forehead, to show her a proper first kiss, to make it magical for her, to make it so much more than a little more than nothing. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, reminding himself to be strong and remember his station.

"This all must seem so stupid to you." She mistook his silence for disdain and he nearly lost all his resolve. "Maybe I _am_ just a silly, naïve little girl."

"You're not." He surprised them both with the force of his voice. "You're independent, you're the kindest person I've ever met, you're smart, and you want to make a difference. You could never be a silly, naïve little anything. You are, Lady Sybil, the strongest woman I have ever known."

There was a long silence while she took this all in and he cringed, hoping he hadn't said too much. He just couldn't help himself. Hearing her doubt herself, when he knew the truth of all she was, was too much for him to take.

"Do you really think so?" Her voice was small.

He stopped the car, right there in the middle of the road. There was no one else out, so he didn't think it mattered. He turned around so he could look directly at her.

"I know it all." He told her firmly. "And I know this _idiot_ will know it someday, too, and he'll regret very much doing this. Anyone who would treat someone else that way isn't much of a man, much less a gentleman, in my opinion. And he's a fool, for certain, because he could've chosen to be the luckiest man alive, the man who made you happy, and instead he threw that chance away. And someday he'll see you, maybe in the newspaper for making big changes in the world, and he'll see how beautiful and how wonderful you are, and he'll mourn this night. He will."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, but didn't say anything, so he turned back around and continued the drive, his heart pounding in his chest. His mouth was really getting him into it tonight. He'd never been very good at shutting up when he needed to.

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive, but when he stopped in the front driveway, she didn't get out. Normally, when it was just the two of them and no one would find out, she jumped out before he could open the door or help her; she said it was a way for her to assert her rights as a woman and he'd never deny her that. He didn't know what else to do, so he went round to open her door, offering her his hand.

He had to stop breathing for a moment when she took it, because he loved the feel of her hand in his, even though they were both wearing gloves. He ignored the memory of carrying her, holding her body against his, at the count in Ripon. He focused on standing as still as possible and breathing as a normal person would.

But she wasn't letting go of his hand, and he only had so much willpower. She was so close to him, so very close, and he could easily close the gap, could easily lean just a little…

"Thank you, Branson." She murmured, giving his hand one last squeeze as Carson came out with a lamp. "You can't know what it means to know you think so highly of me."

He finally let out a long breath as she walked into the house with Carson. He was in deep. If he hadn't known from the way his body was reacting, he knew it from the sudden and intense hatred he had for some strange fool named Richard Smith.


End file.
